


the challenge: demand satisfaction

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While it’s not unusual for Alexander to tear through camp calling for him, John finds it somewhat inconvenient, at times. Times such as when he’s up to his elbows in a burlap sack, covered in white powder everywhere except for where it should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the challenge: demand satisfaction

While it’s not unusual for Alexander to tear through camp calling for him, John finds it somewhat inconvenient, at times. Times such as when he’s up to his elbows in a burlap sack, covered in white powder everywhere except for where it should be. The door slams open behind him, a familiar silhouette casting a shadow across the floor, Hamilton arriving with his distinctive brand of unfortunate timing.

“John,” says Alexander, indignant, “I’ve looked everywhere for you. What in the world are you doing?”

“I need flour,” John answers, quickly straightening, the ends of a distended handkerchief pinched between his fingers. He turns to face his friend, idly considering that he shouldn’t have ribbed Alexander for his (lack of) height the day before; the man will have plenty of ammunition against him now.

Alexander squints, pulling his woolen jacket tighter around his shoulders. “Flour?”

“I,” he explains, shoulders stiff as he pulls himself to his full height, “have run out of powder for my hair. I know you’ve run out, and we haven’t any in the entire camp.”

“John,” Alexander murmurs, a cloud of vapor obscuring his face as he sighs, “we are on the cusp of battle. Is this really the time? You’ve gone all winter without it and yet, you still live.“ 

Hamilton recognizes the practicality (and often necessity) of appearances, especially for one who planned to be a member of the American elite, but he’d never quite seen the appeal of hair powder. He’s always commented snidely on the matter when the family was called to formal events that required a certain dress code.

John rebuffs him quickly, feeling suddenly self-conscious that such a mark of social standing could be so easily imitated, knowing that Alexander is thinking the same. “What other time than a battle should a man look his best?”

Hamilton tells him immediately, and matter-of-factly, “A man’s marriage and his funeral, my dear Laurens. You’ve already had the one, and I hope to never see the other.”

Distantly, “You hope that I outlive you.”

“With all my heart,” Alexander answers, suddenly fervently sincere at the sight of John’s expression. “As I do for all the family,” he quickly amends, looking away, “that if we do not fall here, we may all grow old in peace and constant correspondence, and I will not find it necessary to attend any of your burials. Maybe there will be another war for us, then.”

“Have no fear, dear boy, you won’t be attending my funeral today.” John’s voice hitches as he turns on his heel, tucking his handkerchief of makeshift hair powder into an inner pocket. He takes his usual long, quick strides out of the storage cabin. “Nevertheless, I must powder my hair.”

“If you were to die today,” Hamilton retorts with obvious concern in his voice, nearly jogging to catch up and falling into step with Laurens when the taller man slows his pace, “the ceremony would still be days away.”

“Then you shall not find it necessary to  _plan_  my funeral today.”

“Wouldn’t that fall to your family?”

“You’ll not find it necessary to  _plan_  to  _attend_  my funeral,” John says, now thoroughly exasperated at his fellow aide’s inability to let a subject drop, “or to write my father, or to otherwise have reason to mourn my death at any point today or the rest of our time in this forsaken place, my dear Hamilton. Are you satisfied yet?”

Alexander smiles; a bright, happy thing, briefly chasing the winter’s worth of misery and ill health out of his lean face. “Quite.”


End file.
